


Wishes Hopes and Dreams

by notenoughtogivebread



Category: Glee
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Canon Compliant, Childhood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 14:25:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11106429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughtogivebread/pseuds/notenoughtogivebread
Summary: Written for Klaine Advent 2015. A three part meditation on stories and their power to give us hope.





	1. Fairy Tales

“…and they lived happily ever after.” 

Blaine snuggled back against his Daddy’s broad chest. “I wish I could have a Prince Charming.” 

The voice rumbled under his cheek as Mr. Anderson closed the book he’d been reading from. “Why do you say that, son?” 

He sat up and spoke, looking earnestly into his Daddy’s blue eyes. “Because then all my wishes would come true, like for Cinderella.” 

Mr. Anderson frowned, and, opening the book to a picture of the Fairy Godmother turning the pumpkin into a coach, said, “I thought SHE made Cinderella’s wishes come true.” 

“No, Daddy. That’s just MAGIC. You need Prince Charming for the wishes.” 

Mr. Anderson sat back and studied his 6-year-old son’s eager face. “Maybe YOU could be Prince Charming.” 

“But then it wouldn’t be MY story.” 

“What?” 

“Cause he only comes in at the end. Just princesses get wishes.” 

Mr. Anderson carefully lifted his son off his lap and went over to his bookcase. “I think we need to find some more stories—how about _Puss in Boots,_ or _The Princess and the Glass Hill,_ or perhaps _Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp_? There’s lots of stories of boys having adventures. And _then_ marrying a princess.” 

“What kind of adventures?” 

His Daddy looked thoughtful. “All kinds. Mostly, though, the boys in the stories who get their wishes—a princess, a kingdom—are boys who do the right thing. I’ll show you,” he said, eagerly pulling down his Lang books. 

Blaine slid down the chair until only his head and shoulders were resting on it, and thumped his feet on the floor. “Can’t we read Aladdin first? I like Aladdin.” 

“That’s because the genie in the movie makes you laugh.” 

“But Aladdin isn’t Prince Charming,” Blaine insisted. 

Mr. Anderson chuckled. “Maybe—what’s her name—Princess Jasmine is Prince Charming.” 

“Daddy!” Blaine giggled. 

Mr. Anderson sat down with his thick Illustrated Arabian Nights and said, “Tell you what…we’ll start reading the story of the magic lamp at bedtime tomorrow. It’s a LONG story.” 

“Do I haff to go to bed now?” 

“Not yet. Do you want to look at the pictures? And we can talk about Aladdin some more before Mama comes to say prayers,” he said, pulling Blaine up to sit next to him, the large book open in their laps. 

* * *

Elizabeth Hummel was baking a pie for Daddy’s dinner, but she promised Kurt they could watch some more of the _Sound of Music_ after she put it in the oven. “Can you get a snuggle nest ready for us?” 

He started fluffing up pillows, then darted into the kitchen, sliding on his socks as he did. “Can I go get a costume from upstairs?” 

“So you can sing? I would like that, Kurt,” she replied. As he came down the stairs, arms full of the long black scarf they had found at the thrift store last week, she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and settled on the couch, opening the blankets to welcome him in. “Now, where were we?” 

“Maria left because the bad lady made her.” 

“The bad lady? Oh, the Baroness.” 

She cued up the video to the scene of Maria and the Mother Abbess in the older woman’s office. As the Abbess began to sing, Kurt struggled down off the couch and fashioned a nun’s habit out of the scarf. His little piping voice joined in on the chorus: 

_“Climb ev’ry mountain,/ Ford ev’ry stream,/ Follow every rainbow,/ Till you find your dream.”_

She applauded. “Kurt, you sing almost as good as the Abbess.” 

He bowed, pleased, and bounced onto the couch next to her. ”I’ve been practicing that one. I like it. She sounds like she’s just going to fly away out that window, she’s so happy.” 

“Is that what you think? And are you happy when you sing it?” 

“Mm-hmm. I can sing it when I’m sad and it makes me happy.” 

She kissed the top of his shock of thick hair. “That’s my brave boy,” she murmured. 

“But, you know what I wonder? Why does Maria go back then? Doesn’t she like the Mother?” 

Elizabeth paused the movie and said, “Look at Maria there, Kurt. Doesn’t she look happy? She loves Mother Abbess. And she loves her song.” She cuddled him close, looked down into his serious grey eyes, and said, “Do you know why Mother sings that song?” 

“Cause she likes to sing, silly.” 

“Well, yes. But she’s telling Maria to go follow her dream. And that means going back to the Captain.” 

“So she’s TELLING her to go? With the song?” he asked, looking long at Maria’s still face, Julie Andrews’ big eyes so full of her dreams. “And then she gets married, right?” 

“Now you’re getting ahead of the story. But yes, she gets married. See, Maria didn’t think she’d ever get married. She thought she’d always live in the convent with the other sisters and maybe—I guess she’d be a teacher. She had it all figured out.” 

“But then she went to the Captain’s house!” 

“Yes! And she found out that God had a different plan for her. See—she was AFRAID, but now she’s going to be brave, and find her destiny.” 

“And kiss the Captain, and have a long, long wedding dress, and run away from the bad guys over the mountains…” Kurt was wriggling with his excitement. 

“Kurt! You can tell the whole story, can’t you? But if you sit quiet and nice with Mommy, and not kick her (“Sorry, Mommy.”), we can sing _My Favorite Things_ with the children before I take the pie out to cool.” 

“You promise to sing it with me?” 

“Always, my sweet boy.”


	2. Reality Intrudes

Tom Anderson sighed as he leaned in the doorway of the den, watching Blaine sitting up in the hospital bed, pushing his lunch around on his plate. Blaine turned at the sound and winced at the motion, then returned his eyes to his plate. 

He came into the room then, leaning against the bed next to Blaine’s uninjured leg. “How’s your head?” 

“It’s worse today. It’s like light is arrows in my skull.” 

He showed his son the sleep mask in his hands. “Your Mama thought so; she asked me to bring this down to you. It might help, though it’s a little too…” He trailed off, twisting the glittery thing. 

“What? A little too GAY for you?” Blaine would have snarled, but just raising his voice that little bit had him wincing again, and he grabbed for the mask, slipping it on over the ragged bandage on his brow. 

Tom blew out a frustrated breath. “You want to know why I’m not thrilled with the gay thing? Really? You’re going to be recovering for _weeks,_ Blaine. They broke your _femur,_ for God’s sake. You’re not out of the woods yet…” His voice was filled with restrained tears, and Blaine lifted the mask to look at him out of one sorrowful eye. 

“Dad…” 

“I want you to have a chance to grow up, Blaine. To be _safe._ Your brother is off doing God knows what, wandering around Southern California, college flushed down the toilet. I thought you were my _sensible_ son.” 

“I _am._ You know that I want to go to college, and I’m not going to drop out of school to be an actor. I promise.” 

“That’s if you MAKE it to college. Blaine, you’re 14 and you tried to take on three boys at once.” 

“They were hurting him, Dad. What was I supposed to do?” 

“You were not supposed to be in that situation in the first place,” Tom answered shortly. He pulled a pamphlet out of his inside suit jacket pocket, and laid it on the overbed table. “I’m leaving this here for you to look over—when you can.” He picked up the lunch plates and went to leave the room. 

Blaine squinted at the Dalton Academy brochure, the letters swimming in his vision. “Dad…” 

Tom turned in the doorway. 

“Can you maybe come back and read to me? I can’t watch TV or go on my computer, or play ANY instrument—and my phone…” 

“ _Fellowship of the Ring_ okay?” 

Blaine nodded and so Tom stopped in the library after dropping off the dishes to pick up his copy of the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy. He hesitated, then tracked back to the kitchen and added two cups of coffee onto a tray with the book. 

“Here. Coffee helps with my headaches,” he said as he drew a comfy chair up to Blaine’s bed. He paged through the book. “Let me guess; am I correct in assuming you want to journey to the sign of the Prancing Pony in Bree?” 

“When they meet Strider,” Blaine sighed, taking a deep pull from the coffee. 

His Dad paused, bemused. “And here I thought all along you were impressed by his heroism. But—is this a _crush_?” 

Blaine lifted one corner of the mask again, his single eye judging his father’s expression. “You know he’s right next to Frodo and Luke Skywalker in my pantheon of heroes, Dad.” Still, he blushed, biting his lips as he said, “But he’s Viggo Mortensen. Duh.” 

“Duly noted,” he replied in a dry tone, then flipped through until he found his page. As his deep voice spoke the familiar words, father and son relaxed into their own thoughts. 

* * *

Kurt was tiptoeing around, honestly driving his recuperating father crazy. Burt recognized THIS Kurt, the one who needed everything to be just so, just right. It was a scared Kurt. So though God knows he was done being pampered, Burt just sighed and let his boy practically spoon feed him. 

There were things they needed to talk about—what would happen to the garage if he _did_ pass, how Kurt could maximize his return on the investment Burt had made there. Christ, he knew the kid could probably take over running it, but THAT wasn’t the life Kurt wanted, was it? 

He wished all of that wasn’t waiting in the wings for them. He wanted so much for his OWN life these days—to be with Carole, first. And to guide these two boys of theirs to adulthood. Maybe find a way to make a difference, look into those PFLAG people. 

Well, he couldn’t get back to the garage for a while, not without Kurt hovering and Mike and Ed conspiring with his son to keep tools out of Burt’s hands. And the Carole thing—well, there was that ring in his bedside drawer, right next to Lizzie’s old Bible, but he needed to feel more—well, able to stand up for more than 5 minutes at a time—before that could happen. But he guessed one thing he COULD do: try to be a good dad to this kid. Even if that meant saying things Kurt didn’t want to hear. 

So he sighed, and settled on the couch, and listened to Kurt prattle on. Christ, he hated how LONELY the kid still sounded. Even having friends in the glee club hadn’t made up for not having someone to date. He didn’t know who this Sam kid was, but…. He ran his hand over his bald head and took a chance: “Maybe Finn has a point.” 

Kurt was immediately brittle and defensive. “You’re siding with him after what he called me in our basement?” 

Burt raised his eyebrows; time to man up and TALK to the kid. “I was talking to Carole and you weren’t totally honest with me.” 

And after the initial disbelief and, yes, defensiveness, it was—well, good. At least he felt like he fumbled to some good advice. And, maybe more important, Kurt got to let off some steam—and get out a few words that opened up a picture of the wishes he held close to his heart: “…I mean, why can’t I walk hand in hand down the hall with a person that I like? Why can’t I slow dance at my prom?” 

Damn. Burt HAD to find a way to stick around for this kid a little longer—no, a LOT longer. “Come here. You think I don’t want those things for you? I do.” 

Kurt sat gingerly next to him and gently rested his shoulder against his old man. Burt closed his eyes, trying to picture the guy waiting in some other house, in some other city probably, growing to be the person he’d have to trust with his kid’s heart. 

He sat up, clapping his hand on Kurt’s knee. “C’mon. Enough moping. Let’s do a movie.” 

“Like what?” Kurt sighed. 

“I got Carole to drop off this _Rocky Horror_ DVD…” 

“Ugh. That just reminds me of our failure. And what do you know about _Rocky Horror_ anyway?” 

“Why do you insist on thinking I spent my whole high school years in the weight room or auto shop? Your old man could dance a mean Time Warp back in the day. A gang of us went all the time to Midnight shows in Dayton." 

“Please tell me you didn’t cosplay—unless it was Brad.” 

“Nah. Threw my share of toast at the screen though.” 

“Of course you did.” 

Burt dug down into the couch cushions. “Well, what about something a little tamer? _Roman Holiday_?” 

Kurt’s eyes flew up to meet his Dad’s. “You'll really watch that with me?” 

“Why not? I always thought Audrey Hepburn reminded me of your mom.” 

Kurt’s step was lighter as he crossed to start the DVD, and Burt patted himself a little on the back. It might be tough going, but they would get there. And he wasn’t above accepting help from a runaway princess, that’s for sure. Not if she could put a smile back on Kurt’s face like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue between Kurt and Burt is lifted from Duets episode of Glee.


	3. A Moment of Magic

He was angry most of the drive to Dalton. Sometimes—when even the guys in Glee club acted like they didn’t get him—Kurt just saw red. Better than the alternative: despair. But he was so tired of being overlooked, misjudged—say it, Kurt—bullied. He breathed deeply and let the golden afternoon light calm him, his soundtrack playlist filling the air in the car with wishes and dreams. 

The Navigator passed under the golden sycamores on the drive into Dalton, the afternoon sun painting the fields and gardens around the school a gilded green. In the parking lot, Kurt checked his wardrobe in the mirror, noting the boys passing the car under the spread of a copper beech, comparing their cricket jackets and grey flannels with his short pants and black blazer, suddenly nervous about the success of his spying mission. 

As he got out of the car, a group of boys headed for the front door of the mansion, pausing as one swiped a card by the door to gain access. He was relieved to see more variety in their clothes, a red sweater vest on one, white shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow on another. He caught up to another group, some of these in gym shorts, carrying tennis rackets. As he got to the door, he started digging in his bag, pretending to be looking for his key, but one of the boys, a tall blonde with cornflower blue eyes, said, “Never mind. We got it,” and held the door for him, smiling, those startling eyes trailing over Kurt’s face. Kurt was suddenly flustered; was this guy _flirting_ with him? 

Inside the door, the tennis players peeled off, leaving him to wander; hearing a hum of boy’s voices, he hurried up the stairs at his right and walked down a hallway lined with classrooms. From the open door of one he heard a voice reciting what sounded like Latin conjugations. Peeking into the next, he saw a group of boys in French conversation, no teacher in sight. He felt the presence of boys all around him: boys of all sizes, beautiful boys, geeky boys, preppy boys, jocks, even some squeaky-voiced preteens. 

He rounded a corner to find a group of younger boys rehearsing lines. A thin, redheaded first year suddenly jumped up, declaiming, “O, Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name…,” gesturing in supplication at a passing—well, Kurt could only call him a giant. The big guy turned, his red cardigan revealing itself to be a varsity sweater; he kept walking backward, calling out, “Sounding good there, Herrick! You got auditions today?” 

Kurt had pressed himself up against the wall, anticipating the explosion. When it didn’t come and instead the young guys tumbled all over themselves in their responses, laughing and good-humored, he walked back around the corner to catch his breath. Could it REALLY be like this? Could there really be a place where wanting to act—no, where BEING GAY—didn’t matter? Where a boy could have his ambitions praised rather than mocked? 

He took three deep breaths and stood in hesitation, unsure what direction to head in next, when the tall blonde tennis player ran past, his uniform shirt flapping open as he yanked his already tied tie over his head and shrugged into his blazer. As he did so, he called back over his shoulder, “Senior Commons now.” The junior thespians followed after him, and Kurt, curious, hurried behind. 

The hallway ended at the top of a spiral staircase, and he paused, once again struck by the beauty of this place: the ornate skylight overhead, the sweep of the stair rail, down to a marble landing. The boys crowding past him on the staircase brought him back to his mission. As a dark-haired boy passed him, he called out, “Excuse me. Can I ask you a question? I’m new here.” 

The boy turned, lifting his eyes from the antique watch in his hand to Kurt’s face. Those eyes were a warm gold, and his soft mouth opened in an appreciative O before he reached up to shake Kurt’s hand. “I’m Blaine.” 

* * *

Blaine fidgeted in his Latin tutorial. Thomas, the sixth-former who was leading the group (and who Blaine called Percy Weasley in his more uncharitable moments) was droning on and on. God, he was worse than Old Man Prewitt. Blaine surreptitiously slipped his phone out of his pocket when it buzzed quietly, vibrating against the handful of coins in his pocket. 

He didn’t know WHY Wes was convening the Warblers; he just knew that he would be eternally grateful to him. He stood, stuffing his notes into his bag, an apology springing to his lips. 

“Leaving us, Anderson? Do you feel prepared for tomorrow’s quiz already?” 

He took a deep breath, reminded himself that this guy wasn’t his boss or a teacher, just a kid trying to help underclassman (and pad his college apps), and held up his phone. “Duty—well, Wes Montgomery—calls.” 

“Are the Warblers performing?” “Cool.” “Now? Where?” Seems he wasn’t the only one who was weary of differentiating Perfect Subjunctive from Future Imperative. 

“You know, Anderson, abandoning Latin for song and dance—what’s the point? Latin will really help you in the SATs next year, and in your later studies. You have a good mind; you could really have a shot at Law School.” 

Blaine was flatfooted at the older boy’s presumptuousness. He gripped the strap of his bag tightly and replied, “That being said, I AM the group’s soloist, and I really don’t want to let down my teammates. But, um, thanks for your advice—and the tutorial. I’ll see you on Thursday?” 

He edged out the door and joined the mass exodus down the Taylor Stairs, pulling out his grandfather Anderson’s watch as he did so. He loved Dalton, he did. The Warblers were his home, but some days he had just had quite enough of condescending assholes like Harold Freaking Thomas. Singing and horsing around with Jeff and Nick might not seem important to SOME folks, but it was the thing that got him through his days. 

Great. He was late. Wes and the other seniors on the Traditions committee had worked hard to come up with ideas for more impromptu fun as the deadlines for college applications piled up. Blaine wanted to do his part. Wasn’t this partly what the arts were for, to help other people? He took the responsibility the council placed on him very seriously. (Plus, he really rocked Katy Perry, if he was honest with himself.) 

As he tucked the watch away, he heard a soft voice call out, “Excuse me.” And he turned to see an angel—a badly out of place angel—with a beautifully sculpted brow over sad grey-green eyes. Those eyes struck a chord in him. Or maybe it was just that he was _already_ in helping mode. But he suddenly wanted particularly to take THIS boy’s pain away. That’s the only excuse he had, really, for taking the angel’s hand—Kurt’s soft, cool hand—and dragging him alone through the Mural Tea Room. 

Maybe he had found someone to sing “Teenage Dream” to, after all.


End file.
